


Break Along the Seams

by AggressiveWhenStartled



Series: Unusual Efforts [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Bechdel Test Pass, F/M, Fem!John - Freeform, Female John Watson, Femlock, Genderswap, Redeemable Sally Donovan, Verbal Abuse, Women Being Awesome, Yelling, girl!john, references to domestic abuse, safe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-04 12:18:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AggressiveWhenStartled/pseuds/AggressiveWhenStartled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan nearly cried with relief when her mobile rang, even if it was Sally.</p><p>“Please tell me you have a case for Sherlock,” she begged. “Please. He’s been microwaving leeches, and when I complain, he acts like I’m the weird one since I was the one who told him to stop keeping them in the teapot.” There was a crash behind her. "Cut it out!" she hollered, and Sherlock shouted at her through the door for interrupting him.</p><p>“I’m not interrupting anything but you breaking my things in our bathtub, you mad wanker!” she yelled back. “Please, Sally, a case. I am going to lose my hair and it will be all your and Greg’s fault.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic makes sense by itself, but makes more sense when you read the other two. 
> 
> Thank you to my beta Alchymyst for your magnificent work, and being so understanding and encouraging when I go full-on anxious about everything! I sent her so many essay length emails in such quick succession, guys, seriously she was so amazingly patient with me. Thank you also Catonspeed, who is britpicking for me now! And getting a million different versions as I keep changing my mind, and being equally as cheerful about it as Alchymyst is.
> 
> Everyone who offered to help but I already had it, you dodged a bullet, seriously.
> 
> UPDATE: I've tagged this for verbal abuse. I agree with comments that the shit Sherlock is pulling in this chapter is unacceptable. He will be doing serious groveling and making long-term changes later on, but definitely let me know if I have made him irredeemable in this chapter: if I have, I need to fix it.
> 
> UPDATE 2: I've gotten a lot of feedback both ways! I've compromised and made a few very small changes. If you still have concerns they are totally valid and I am still interested in hearing them-- just know that other commenters may have read a slightly different version and be respectful and understanding of their opinions.

Sherlock was driving Joan _up the wall_.

They had been three weeks without a case; Mycroft seemed to be trying to give them space, and Greg was still avoiding bringing them in when he could. Sherlock reacted much like he usually did, and as an added bonus had spent the time swinging madly between hanging off of Joan at every possible moment and locking himself away from her into any room with a door. 

“If you want to hide from me, Sherlock, the flat’s too small for it to be effective,” she finally yelled when he barricaded himself in the kitchen. He’d actually pushed the chairs and table across the entrance to block it, and she idly wondered if he even realised he was doing it. Making forts was not something Sherlock seemed likely to do if he was thinking about it—he no doubt believed it when he told her it was ‘an experiment.’ “Go study the mud in the park or something.” 

Sherlock pouted, knocked a chair aside, and flounced into the toilet. Where he locked the door and proceeded to break something. Joan nearly cried with relief when her mobile rang, even if it was Sally.

“Please tell me you have a case for Sherlock,” she begged. “Please. He’s been microwaving leeches, and when I complain, he acts like I’m the weird one since I was the one who told him to stop keeping them in the teapot.”

Sally didn’t reply straightaway, and Joan could _hear_ her re-evaluating her choices. “Sorry, no,” she said, and Joan groaned and slammed her head against the wall. Sherlock shouted at her through the door for interrupting him.

“I’m not interrupting anything but you breaking my things in our bathtub, you mad wanker!” she yelled. “Please, Sally, a case. I am going to lose my hair and it will be all your and Greg’s fault.”

“You keep it so short anyway no one will notice,” Sally replied breezily, “and good luck trying to make me want to spend time with Sherlock by telling me how awful it is to be around him. No, I wanted to know if you would like to meet up and discuss harassment paperwork. I’ve had about all I can stand of Anderson today and I’m guessing you’ll be as happy to sign off as a witness on mine as I am on yours.”

“Oh you angel, yes, get me out of this flat. Where are we meeting and can it be right now?” To Sherlock, she shouted, “I’m going to meet up with Sally! Try not to burn anything down while I’m gone!”

“Sally? Since when do you like Sally?” Sherlock slammed the door open and glared at her. “I need you here. You can’t go off with Sally.”

“You don’t need me, you’re just throwing my things against the tiles, and Sally’s actually quite nice now that she doesn’t think you’re secretly a serial killer learning to evade arrest.”

“I think he’s _probably_ not a serial killer trying to evade arrest,” Sally corrected, “mainly because you would have noticed and you’re a rubbish liar.”

“Don’t fib, he’s been growing on you since you split with Anderson and he congratulated you on your good sense. You almost smiled when he said you could do better.”

“Growing on me like mould,” Sally replied tiredly. “I’ll see you in my office soon then? And…” She sighed. “Bring Sherlock, I’ll talk to Greg about handing over some cold cases.”

“Sally, I could kiss you,” Joan said happily, and Sally gagged.

“Don’t—I rather not be proven right about the serial killer thing by being strangled in a fit of jealousy.” 

The taxi ride to the station was exhausting in and of itself, but once they arrived Sherlock locked himself in Greg’s office with the case files—Greg had pounded on his own door from the outside for a few minutes before giving up and ousting a sergeant to get his work done—and Joan and Sally shut themselves up in hers. Joan let herself relax slightly, writing down every incident she could recall a date for and copying from her notes.

Sally was impressed. “Women don’t usually keep track of it, even when it’s systematic,” she offered when Joan caught her looking at her oddly. “They should, they just don’t.”

“A lot of people in charge of Anderson don’t like me,” Joan explained. “S’why I’ve taken so long to actually file. I wanted dates and times and actual quotes. Luckily Anderson has been very helpful and has provided me with ample evidence.” 

“Well, that’s one thing he’s good for, I suppose. Jesse says she wants in on these, too, by the way—it’ll be good to have someone who didn’t sleep with him sign yours, too.” Sally looked over what she’d written, made a few notes and signed. “Are you doing alright? Greg’s still worried you’ll kill yourself if he gives you half a chance.”

“You sneak! You called me in to check on me for Greg.” Joan grinned. “I’m fine. Tell him not to worry. I’m about…50% less likely now to court my own death. I’m still an idiot when I get angry, but so far I haven’t ended up in hospital. I’m much more likely to show up at Bart’s as a result of heart failure if we don’t get out of the flat soon though—the two of us are driving each other mad.”

“Huh. Alright.” Sally swapped their forms. “I’ll tell Greg he should let you two back in then. It’ll be… nice to have you around.” She shrugged. “And if he doesn’t, and you want to stop being so ridiculously co-dependent once in a while…”

Joan smiled widely. “Sally Donovan. Are we bonding?”

“You’re not getting near my hair,” Sally snapped, “so don’t make any jokes about braiding it.”

They worked in silence for a bit until they started hearing shouting in the hallway, and Joan had to go break up Sherlock and Greg.

***

Joan knew the cold cases wouldn’t fix the problem entirely, but she would have expected them to take a bit of Sherlock’s jagged edge off. Instead, he was worse than he’d been that morning.

She ignored him as best she could, rolling her eyes when he decided he needed whatever she was using _right that minute_ and following her about only to tell her to leave him alone. Finally he sunk into a deep, lethargic sulk on the couch, draped over it like a swooning gothic heroine, silently glaring at the ceiling.

She had just enough time to make some tea in peace and savour the silence before it got too long and she started worrying about him. She frowned, knowing bothering him wouldn’t help in the least, and tried to be as unobtrusive as possible; staying in the kitchen and tidying things up instead of relaxing in her chair like she wanted to.

“Get out.”

“Sorry?” She popped her head out to look at him, surprised.

“You’re distracting me. Get out.” 

Joan raised an eyebrow. “I’m not even in the same room as you, and you don’t have anything on to distract you from; you flipped through the cold cases and threw them in Greg’s face before storming out because they were ‘infantile.’ What are you concentrating on that I need to bugger off so you can dance your mind palace Macarena?”

“I do not receive all of my cases from the police—“ He broke off. “I don’t dance when I go to my mind palace.”

Joan laughed. “Yeah, you do.”

Sherlock scowled. “I use minute physical movements to direct and channel my thoughts, and—you are distracting me, right now, get out.”

“Fine, I’ll hole up in the bedroom instead. Why don’t you tell me about what you’re working on, though? Maybe I can help.” She set her empty tea mug in the sink and started towards him.

Sherlock sat up straight and slammed his fists into the cushions beside him. “I don’t _need_ you, I am perfectly capable of completing my work without a _minder_ , I don’t want you here! I want you out of the flat and out of the building and somewhere else as far as you can go!” he exploded. Joan jerked back, startled, before she was quickly overwhelmed by a hot rush of anger.

“Get out? It’s my bloody flat—you never signed back on the lease! _You_ bugger off if you want to! I never said you needed me, I said I could help, you antagonistic dick.”

Sherlock stood abruptly and turned dramatically away, flinging his arms out and making a loud noise of frustration. “Clearly I do, since you are _still here_. You can’t help me because you have the mental capacity of our oven and you trundle around hovering like some deranged nanny, _I don’t need your help_ , I want you to leave and stop bothering me with all your petty useless female complaints!” He snatched up her coat and shoved it at her, then pushed her towards the door. She shook him off and stared, furious.

“ _Female complaints_? What the _hell_? I can’t tell—are you pissed that I keep you from killing yourself off via starvation, sleep deprivation, asphyxiation or poisoning, which I clearly do simply because I possess a vagina, or are you afraid I’ll spontaneously menstruate all over your work?” she shouted, angrily baffled. Sherlock loomed over her and sneered.

“I’m afraid you will completely destroy my work with your incompetence and your…your… you traipse around the flat in…” He gestured at her wildly, to her complete bewilderment; she was wearing jeans and a thick knit jumper and was covered chin to instep. He clearly realised it was a losing argument because he immediately moved on. “Then I end up dropping whatever I’m doing to fuck you like a…like…” He was going to say it. Joan stared at him in fascination. It was like a train wreck; he was clearly looking for the most offensive, hurtful word he could throw at her but knew it was so unforgivable he couldn’t use it even at the height of his worst tantrum. 

“Like a whore?” she whispered, coldly, and he flinched. “Go on, say it. Like a whore.”

“Like a whore!” he bellowed. “I don’t _want_ to need to have sex with you all the time! I want to do my work, but you are using up my hard drive and my attention with all your emotions and our ‘relationship’! Then you run after me and get in the way with your stupid, obvious questions, and you want to talk about _everything_ , and you’re not even any good to the work as aggressive force now! You’re just a hostage, a stupid, useless, distracting hostage that I have to hem in and protect while—“

Joan flung out an angry hand up to stop him. “You’re trying to hurt me. I don’t know what you want me to do, or what I’ve done that you’re punishing me for, but you _know_ you’re out of line. No,” she cut him off when he opened his mouth, “don’t give me any bullshit about how much smarter you are, and how unoffended I should be when you point out what you think are the facts. You’re not making a point or discussing a case or whatever you think justifies logically explaining things in the best way to piss everyone off, you are actively trying to hurt me and that is unacceptable. And the way you are trying to hurt me is _absolutely_ unacceptable. Not. Good.”

Sherlock pulled on his hair. “I am not stupid, Joan, don’t treat me like a child! I am _not a child_! I am perfectly capable of life without you, I’m not some freak who needs a minder to talk to the police and talk to Mrs Hudson and talk to the clients and save everyone from having to deal with me and my strangeness! I am _brilliant_ , I am orders of magnitude beyond the rest of you, combined, and simply because I do not cater to everyone’s ridiculous _feelings_ at _every waking moment_ , you all seem to think I am somehow defective, and _I am not_.”

Joan threw her coat to the floor. “I never said you _were_! I said—”

“And _you_ ,” he hissed, “you are making it _worse_. My work is _actively deteriorating_ because you make me lose what had been a perfect, complete control of libido and emotions. I can’t think because I can smell you, I can’t work because I can hear you, I have puzzles to solve and all I can think about is throwing you across Lestrade’s desk and making you scream loud enough that he hears and _knows he can’t have you_ and it is absurd and degrading and humiliating! And even now I want to have you against the door and I am _furious_ with you!”

Joan was so mad she had trouble speaking. “You…” she rasped, livid, “it’s a good thing, then, that that is definitely not going to be an option, you thoughtless, hateful bastard. Are you honestly blaming me because you _can’t control your own dick_?”

“It was never a problem before you—“

“You do not get to vilify and attack me because your feelings and your penis don’t do what you want them to anymore. That shit is on _you_. How dare you. How dare you! How dare you blame me for existing and your goddamn feelings about it? How the hell is it _my_ fault that _your_ goddamn cock is leading you around? It is _not my fault_ , and I will not take this from you. If you don’t want to sit there staring at my arse _don’t stare at my arse_ , it’s not my fucking fault for _having an arse_!” 

She didn’t shove him aside to get around him, instead ducking under his arm, and she congratulated herself on not punching him in the face to get him out of her way. He followed her, momentarily cowed but still fuming, into their bedroom, but stopped at the door when she yanked her army duffel from the wardrobe and started throwing in her clothing.

“What are you doing?” he asked angrily. She laughed without humour; for a genius, he was pretty goddamn stupid if it wasn’t clear.

“I’m getting out. Congratulations, you win, I’m leaving.” She ducked under his arm and slammed the bathroom door open violently to throw her toiletries in as well.

“You can’t leave,” he said, outraged, and she spun around and nearly punched the mirror.

“You were just screaming at me not five minutes ago because you wanted to drive me out! Fine—I can leave and I am. You are hurting me because you’re angry at yourself, and I didn’t take that from Harry; I’m not taking it from you.” 

Sherlock looked like he’d been slapped. “I’m not—I haven’t hit you,” he stammered, “we call each other names all the time. They don’t count. It’s not the same.”

Joan nearly ripped her duffel bag zipping it and shrugged it onto a shoulder. “Don’t even try to pretend you don’t understand the difference here. You know this is beyond Not Good, or you wouldn’t have saved this shit up—it would have come out every time you got a little bit pissy, just like your little snipes about my intelligence do.” She braced her feet and stood military straight. “Get out of my way. My rule against hitting people I love does not extend to letting you trap me and hurl abuse.”

Sherlock looked sick and stumbled away from the door. She stalked past him and he trailed quietly behind her. 

“You’re going to Lestrade,” he croaked. She smashed the door against the wall, newly furious. 

“Yeah, because I’m _such a slut_ that the second one man stops fucking me I move on straight to the others I’ve kept waiting in the wings!” she shouted at him. The neighbours could hear her, Mrs Hudson could hear her, hell, the Yard could probably hear her. She stomped down the stairs. “Do you honestly think that when this relationship blows up, that when we finally eat each other alive, that I will want anything to do with anyone else? Do you think that Greg is that pathetic, that my friendship with him is that false, that he has been sitting by pretending to care about me as a person when really he has just been waiting for his chance to fuck me again the second you’re not there?”

Sherlock was silent, his face like death. She couldn’t find it in her to feel bad for him.

Joan threw the front door open and spun to glare at him. “I don’t know where the fuck I’m going, Sherlock, as but it’s sure as hell _away_ from _you_ ,” she shouted, slammed the door behind her, then kicked it as hard as she could. The force of it broke the lock, and the door slammed back open. She felt frustratingly guilty about doing damage to Mrs Hudson’s property, but she couldn’t force herself to go back in and apologise to her. 

***

It took about fifteen minutes of furious, directionless speed-walking for Joan to start feeling silly. It took a further ten minutes for her to feel foolish enough to stop, find a park bench, and sit down to kick herself in earnest. Where, exactly, had she planned to go? She couldn’t go to Greg’s, and she wouldn’t go to her family. She’s forgotten her wallet, too, which just put the cap on feeling like an idiot. 

It took at least another hour, though, for her to swallow enough of her pride to pick up her duffel and turn around; she’d packed an overnight bag, for Christ’s sake, it was pretty anti-climactic to walk back and work it all out. But she hadn’t cried much, so she wouldn’t look _too_ awful trudging back in, and it was probably for the best they made up and discussed exactly what constituted verbal abuse in a relationship as soon as possible. Now that she had calmed somewhat, she was going back over the end of their fight and his confusion was troubling; not for the first time she wished she knew more about his sexual history.

The door was still broken and ajar, because of course it was; had she expected fairies to duck in and fix it in the two hours she’d been gone? She pulled it carefully shut behind her and sent a mental apology to Mrs Hudson before she trudged up the stairs and into their flat.

And found Irene _fucking_ Adler sitting in _her_ goddamn chair, poised and smug as ever. Sherlock looked at Joan like he was trying desperately to keep the ‘oh shit’ from showing on his face.

He failed _entirely_.

“Are you kidding me?” she managed, fury rushing back in a moment. “Who’s next, is my bloody sainted grandmother going to come walking back and tell me _her_ death was faked, too?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: We are having a discussion about verbal abuse and Sherlock in the comments. I want to hear your thoughts; please let me know how you felt about this chapter, especially if you think I've pushed Sherlock into a place that is unforgivable.
> 
> UPDATE 2: I told you the changes were very small. If you don't think it is enough, I want to hear from you! If you think the chapter should stay the way it is, I also want to hear from you. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Thanks again to my wonderful britpicker Catonspeed for being amazing! Thanks to all of you for being super patient and encouraging and awesome.
> 
> Oh my god guys did you know when you search for Sherlock genderswaps and sort by kudos I'm on the second page now? And the third page if you sort by hits? HOLY CRAP. Thank you everyone who has come by and given kudos and left comments, you guys, oh my goodness, I am so geeked you have no idea.
> 
> Did you also know that the lovely Ninya wants to translate this into French? HOLY BUCKETS. I am so amazed.

The ensuing row Joan and Sherlock had was amazing, even compared to the one they’d just had. Irene watched them gleefully, as if they were re-enacting the latest episode of Neighbours, until Joan shot her a glare and dragged Sherlock into the bedroom to fight instead. Not that it mattered; they were definitely audible through the door.

“You bloody _liar_ , I can’t believe you, you didn’t think that I would want to know that Irene _Goddamn_ Adler was alive?” she shrieked, ready to tear her own hair out. “Or were you telling me the truth, and my breaking the lock on the door just let in her sexy vengeful spirit?”

Sherlock looked mulish, a sure sign he felt guilty as hell but would refuse to admit it. “You assured me you already knew. You told me all about it,” he pointed out irately, “or are you having trouble keeping your stories straight? If I recall, she was in a witness protection program in America.”

“You knew I thought she was dead, you let me look like an idiot trying to dance around your feelings about it and you never—“

“You made yourself look like an idiot—“

“Stuff it! And now she’s in our home? In my chair? Like she didn’t play you like—“

“She didn’t play me, I won. I won because—“

“Because it turned out she wanted to fuck you as much as you wanted to fuck her?” Joan yelled, slamming a fist into the door.

“You’re jealous.” Sherlock looked confused. “Why are you allowed to be jealous of Irene but I am not allowed to be jealous of Lestrade?” he asked, frustrated. “You have provided me with far more detailed information to haunt my imagination. Whenever you speak to him I picture you in handcuffs and want to pull his teeth out.”

Joan clenched her fists and tried not to hit him. It was getting difficult. “I have been nothing but honest with you about Greg! Don’t you see how colluding with, protecting, and hiding a blackmailing, treasonous criminal is something that would upset me?”

“Of course I did! That’s why I didn’t tell you!” Sherlock said angrily.

Joan’s fingers twitched. “You can’t just not tell me these things, Sherlock! You can’t just lie to me whenever you think I won’t like the truth, or I will stop being able to trust you on anything!”

Sherlock buried his fingers in his hair and pulled, angry. “You informed me that I was allowed to lie about my personal relationships, and my past, so you can’t get upset now that I—“

“Don’t you tell me what I’m allowed to be upset about!” Joan snapped, then stopped. Gaped. “Wait.” Sherlock blanched, and Joan saw red. “Relationships? _Relationships_? You fucked _Irene Adler_?”

“You were sleeping with Lestrade at the time, and not two hours ago today you were telling me as loudly as you could what a despicable excuse for a human being I was for getting upset about it—“

“Are we talking about the years I thought you were dead? Is that when you were with her?” Joan wanted to hurt something, most of all Sherlock, and she wrapped her hands up in her pockets to keep them still. “And are you complaining about one goddamn night with Greg before you made me watch you die, or are you unhappy about the time I spent sobbing in his bed while he tried to talk me into eating afterwards?” 

“We have already had this fight,” Sherlock snapped. “I was trying to save you—“

“Of course it’s the same fight,” Joan yelled, “it’s always the same fight! You do something awful and you pretend you don’t understand, and I yell at you for it!”

“But I _don’t_ understand!” Sherlock shouted back. “I haven’t broken _any_ of your rules this time! You said personal things were fine to lie to you about! You told me you didn’t mind who I’d slept with, how safe it was to tell you about it! I knew you wouldn’t like it, I knew you would care, but you swore you wouldn’t, and I believed you! But now that you know we’re having a row about it, and if you were telling me the truth I don’t understand why!”

“Let’s clear it up for you then!” Joan roared, throwing her hands in the air. Her eyes stung. “How about we talk about what a huge bloody distraction Irene was, but I’m the one who gets flack for keeping you from your work? About how you torpedoed national secrets showing off because you wanted so very much to get into her knickers, about how you went bloody mad when you thought she was dead and you kept her phone, people do, sentiment—“

“You are drawing an unfounded parallel—“

“Unfounded? Unfounded?” Joan’s voice was hoarse, tears of rage spilling down her cheeks and her stomach in knots. “How is it unfounded? I can’t help but notice that you tell me to get lost because I’m a useless sex monkey, but Irene Adler can waltz right in and you’re pleased as punch to set her up in my bloody flat! What does that tell me, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s face fell; he clearly knew what it was telling her. “Joan. No. I didn’t—“

“It tells me that it’s not the distractions and the sex that have you so upset and disgusted, Sherlock.” She slammed the door back open and stalked past him, past a smirking Irene, to scoop up her duffel bag and walk out for the second time that day. At least it was already packed. “It tells me you’re sick of _me_. And now here’s Irene, someone you’ve already chosen over me when you needed help.”

Sherlock hurried after her. “Joan, wait, just wait, let me explain—“

“No! I don’t think I will!” Joan spun at the threshold, enraged, crying. Likely looking a complete mess in front of goddamn Irene Adler. “You’re too fucking clever for me, Sherlock, you’ll explain and it will be perfect. I won’t find anything to question. But you have been lying to me about Irene, you lied to me when you took that goddamn step off Bart’s, you lied to me for three bloody years and let me be your fucking widow, and now I can’t help but wonder what you’ll lie about this time.”

Sherlock’s face was anguished, and he reached for her. “Joan—“

Joan gripped the broken doorknob; she couldn’t let go or she would hit him. “Jesus, are you lying about Moriarty? Is he alive somewhere, sending you his twisted little love letters? Did you fuck him too?” 

Sherlock reared back, and Joan felt her stomach drop. She slapped her hands over her mouth, horrified, and shook her head.

“I’m…I’m sorry, I didn’t…I shouldn’t have said that, I—“

“Joan—“

“I can’t,” she managed, and ran.

***

And she still didn’t have her goddamned wallet. 

Joan cursed and leaned against a building for a moment, trying to steady her breathing, before pulling out her mobile and dialling Sally.

She listened to it ring and dropped her head back against the brick, grinding her scalp against it and blinking back tears. She could barely see.

“What are you calling me for?” Sally asked when she picked up, followed by a short pause, “and does it happen to have anything about the domestic abuse hotline call that Jesse just picked up for your building?”

Joan sniffed. “Which one of us do they think is getting abused?” she asked, curious despite herself.

“I can’t tell. Don’t think they can either.”

Joan laughed weakly. “I guess they could end up being right either way. I’ve never wanted to punch Sherlock so much in my life.”

Sally was silent on the other end. Then, “Shit. You’re out on the pavement with a bag right now, aren’t you?”

Joan bit back a sudden sob. Now that the anger was receding, the hurt and horrible guilt was seeping in. “I might have actually hurt him if I hadn’t,” she admitted, scrubbing her eyes with her palm. “I really might have.”

Sally knew better than to try to blame Sherlock for his own hypothetical abuse. “Do you need somewhere to stay?”

“Yes,” Joan said softly, “I left my wallet and… I can’t afford a hotel for long anyway, but I don’t know what kind of shelters are—”

“Stay on my couch,” Sally cut her off. “I’ll text you the address and you’re probably tall enough to reach the key—I’ve hidden it under the back eaves on a nail and packed it with mud.”

Joan paused, side-tracked. “You work in law enforcement and you have a hidden key to your house on your property?”

“It’s well hidden and I don’t want to hear any of your lip, it’s for emergencies like this one. No one is going to look under the back eaves and dig around in year-old mud,” Sally snapped. “Don’t go back to your flat or do anything stupid. I’m calling a taxi for you and telling them to charge my card—and don’t you complain. You can pay me back. I’m assuming you’re still within walking distance of your tube station?”

“Yes. Sally, you don’t have to—“

“I know I don’t. They’ll meet you at the station.”

Joan smiled. “Thanks.” Sally huffed.

“You’d do it for anyone here,” she replied, and hung up.

***

“Hey.” Sally dropped her bag on the couch next to Joan’s head, startling her awake. Joan groggily rubbed her eyes (swollen), tried to flatten her hair (a horror), and tried to parse what had just happened. 

“Sorry?” she managed.

Sally gave her a dispassionate look. “Glad to see you managed to find the key,” she said, and Joan groaned.

“It took me almost an hour, and I had to stand on your bins to do it. You were right. It was well hidden.” She sat up and blinked at Sally, who was apparently home for the evening. “Thanks again for letting me stay.”

“Not a problem.” Sally looked at her sideways as she put her coat away, and then sat down in one of the chairs opposite. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, clearly dreading it. 

Joan shook her head. “No. I didn’t walk out on Sherlock just so I could sit down and talk about him once I did.”

“Thank God,” Sally said, relieved, “let’s get you drunk instead.”

Joan laughed, surprised, and smiled. “Not really the healthiest way to deal with emotional upheaval,” she said, “and I really don’t feel like going anywhere.”

“Since when do you care about healthy? Last I saw you, you were trying to give yourself stitches in the back of an ambulance,” Sally countered, “and we don’t need to go out to get boozed. Here; I grabbed it at the off license.” She tossed a bottle at Joan, who laughed again when she gave it a closer look. 

“This is possibly the cheapest, most alcoholic vodka I have ever encountered,” she said, awed, “who on earth buys this?”

“You do.” Sally tossed Joan’s wallet at her. She caught it, surprised. “I picked it up on my way home. Sherlock’s gone bloody mental since you left, by the way, unless you left the flat like that.”

“Oh God,” Joan groaned, “did he tear it completely apart? Tell me there are no new bullet holes in the wall.”

Sally looked bemused. “No, apparently he’s spent the entire afternoon and evening cleaning it and dumping his experiments. I checked the microwave; no eyes _or_ leeches.” She went to the kitchen and got two glasses. “I told him you were alright and he relaxed a bit, stopped fluttering around like his arse was on fire.” 

“Well. That’s new.”

“Cleaning? Yeah, I remember what your flat looked like before that drugs bust; we practically tidied it up with the search.” She took the bottle back from Joan, twisted off the cap, and poured the vodka straight into the glasses. “Fuck him, yeah? Let’s get drunk.”

***

They got completely _hammered_.

Joan was having trouble telling which way was up. She managed, with the tiny bit of reason she still had, to be thankful she was a giggly, gregarious drunk, rather than the emotional kind. She would have turned into a soggy mess weeping in the corner in a moment otherwise.

Instead, she was having a fantastic time.

“And so I said,” she slurred, “I said, ‘not quite sure whose those are, sir. Want me to bring them round the barracks, have the boys try them on until we see which one fits?’” Joan tried to look as innocent as she had at the time, and Sally cackled gleefully. Joan joined her. “He told me that he wasn’t going to play Cinderella with a pair of red knickers and to get out of his sight,” she finished, guffawing loudly.

“You have bollocks the size of basketballs, Joan Watson,” Sally managed, snorting with laughter, “if Greg found my thong in his chair after I’d had a friend in his office during the night, I’d just shrivel up and die instead. Christ.” She knocked back what was left in her glass and slammed it back down on the table top. 

“You can’t afford to be embarrassed when you’re as stupid as I got in the army, or you’d be embarrassed all the time.” Joan grinned. “You think I got this crazy because of Sherlock?”

Sally shrugged and almost lost her balance. “I was actually pretty sure it was him,” she admitted, “you seem so normal when you’re not jumping around after criminals. Speaking of army days,” she added, “rumour that’s going around… were you ever called ‘Three Continents Watson’?”

“Yeah,” Joan said ruefully, “it depended on who was saying it whether it was a compliment or an insult, but I had a serious reputation.” She smiled, thinking about it. “There were… a lot of very pretty young men in the military. We had a good time. And the fights were a lot of fun, too, as long as I was careful to keep my hands intact for surgery.”

“Huh.” Sally poured Joan and herself another glass. “Hey. So. Hey.”

“Mmm?”

“I’m in need of a favour.” Sally looked at her over her glass, slumped on her elbows. “There’s a case I’m on, got a complete bag of dicks but the victim won’t talk about it, so we can’t do anything about it. Could use a hand.”

Joan frowned, confused. “Are you trying to get me to take someone out? Cuz I’m pretty sure you’d arrest me right afterwards.”

Sally hooted and slapped the table. “I would! Hah, I definitely would, right after you took care of them for me. No,” she took a swallow of the vodka and made a face, “I need someone who looks sweet and nice and harmless, who’s not a police officer or a social worker or a lawyer… Someone who won’t scare the kid into clamming up. I just need you to talk to her and find out enough for us to take care of the prick. You interested?”

Joan smiled. Everything sounded like a good idea at the moment. “Yeah, I got it. Sure.” She sniggered. “You let me stay over just so you could get this out of me, didn’t you?”

Sally shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe you’re just growing on me.”

“Like mould!” Joan declared, and fell off her chair.

***

Sally went into work with what she swore was the worst hangover she’d ever had, and hadn’t hesitated to blame Joan entirely for it. Joan had begged off on coming in to talk to the witness until she’d gotten over hers; if kind and harmless was the look they were going for, their aims would not be served that day.

Her mobile went off around noon, and she groped for it muzzily before pressing send.

“You’re okay, right?” Greg’s voice came through.

Joan smiled. “I’m okay.”

“Good to know one of us is then,” he grumbled, “Sherlock is making me rethink my police brutality policies, and Sally has been needling him all morning. They won’t tell me shit, but it’s clearly about you and Sally is as smug as she can be while looking sick as a dog.”

“Oh no,” Joan muttered, sitting and trying not to throw up, “Is he at the station?” 

“He’s practically set up camp here. On the upside, all the cases he’d told me were too ‘infantile’ for him are getting solved like you wouldn’t believe. On the downside, I’m the resident Sherlock minder when you’re not here, and he has been more infuriating than I’ve ever seen him. Except when he’s darkly listless and silent, of course. What the hell is going on, Joan?”

Joan sighed. “I’m… staying at Sally’s. I don’t know if Sherlock knows, but with that brain, he probably does.” There was a long silence on the other end. “Greg? You still there?”

“The hell are you doing staying at Sally’s?” Greg managed. “Of all the…How the hell did that happen?”

“Sherlock and I had a fight and I left,” Joan said simply, and she could hear Greg snapping all the pieces together. He hadn’t gotten to be D.I. because of Sherlock; he’d gotten there because he was a damn smart cop. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Do I need to bring by any paperwork for you?” Greg asked carefully.

“No. He was just… he was just a really enormous twat. But I was too.”

Greg cleared his throat. “You have a tendency to say ‘we both behaved badly’ when Sherlock has been absolutely atrocious and you went a little further than you would have liked.”

“I…” Joan shrugged. “Yeah. But we still did both behave badly.”

“Hmm,” Greg replied, unconvinced. “Well, alright then. If you’re okay, though, I need to get back to putting out fires with Sherlock.”

“Oh God, not actual fires though, right?”

“No, he’s definitely lighting actual fires.” Greg said, voice heavy with exhaustion. “I’m really hoping he didn’t do anything unforgivable because if he did and you don’t go back, I’m going to have to arrest him whether you want me to or not.” There was an indistinct voice in the background. “Oh, hold on, Sally wants to talk to you.”

“Shit,” Joan said.

Greg handed her off. “This is the best day I’ve had all month,” Sally told her. Joan laughed. “Seriously, I drop your name and the Freak backs off immediately, just drops it and flutters off to annoy somebody else. Whatever he did must have been really awful.”

“I…really don’t want to talk about it, Sally. I was awful too.”

“Bullshit.” Sally apparently agreed with Greg. “You put up with way too much. If you are pissed enough to sleep on my couch, he has everything I give him coming and more. Speaking of which, I need to drive him off soon because you are coming in at three today.”

“What?” Joan managed, trying to sound as miserable as possible, “I’m ill. I can’t come in today—“

“Shove it, I’m ill too, and I’m dealing with His Sulkiness, you can make it in to talk to one fourteen year old.”

“Now that I’m not completely plastered, this sounds like a bit of a bad idea,” Joan reasoned, nevertheless levering herself out from under the covers and digging in her bag for her clothes and toiletries. “I’m pretty sure it’s not actually legal, either.”

“Yeah? Since when is the bullshit you pull for Greg legal?” Joan could hear Sally moving around, then a door closed and the background noise cut off. “Look. You know me. I am by the books and as regulation happy as a lawyer.” Joan gave up trying to juggle her things along with the phone and just picked up the duffel to bring into the bathroom with her. “But there is a little girl who is getting hurt and I can’t help her and can’t find anyone who can. I care about the victims as much as you do. This shit needs to be done.”

Joan looked at herself in the mirror. “Yeah,” she decided, “okay”.

“You’ll just be a friend stopping by to see me in my office,” Sally told her, “where I will just happen to have her in. Then I’ll duck out to get you guys hot chocolate.” She attempted to glare over the phone, which Joan found honestly impressive. “We can’t afford any legal fuckups, Joan. I need you to keep your head on this one. Nothing that will backfire on us.”

“Got it,” Joan told her reflection. She looked tired and sad, but her resolve was creeping back in. “I’ll see you at three.”

“Good,” Sally replied, and hung up.

***

Sally was good on her word and got rid of Sherlock, although Joan couldn’t imagine how. The entire bullpen looked up at her and stared when she ducked in, and she managed a hesitant smile.

One particularly harassed looking officer had a large burned patch on her desk. Joan averted her eyes and hurried to Sally’s office.

A skinny kid with stick-straight hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, ratty jeans, and a sullen expression looked up as she came in. Sally gave Joan the biggest, happiest smile she’d ever seen and stood up to greet her.

“Joan!” she cried, and if Joan had been a bit slower to catch on she would have been completely freaked out at Sally’s sudden adoration, “it’s really good to see you! I need to grab some of those papers you needed—I’ll be _right back_.” Sally ducked out and the kid gave Joan a sceptical look.

“You a plant?” the girl asked her.

Joan laughed. “I’m totally a plant,” she admitted, “but not technically a legal one. I’m not an officer or a social worker or anyone who’s required to report anything. You’d be safe with anyone Sally got for you anyway, but I’m actually just here as Sally’s friend.” She sat down. “Sally thinks you’re in trouble and need some help.”

The kid looked cagey and uncertain. Joan put on her best smile, her most honest one, and hunkered down in her chair.

“I might be able to help you,” she said. “I’m very good at hitting people very hard, and I’m learning a lot about breaking into places.”

***

Sally had the girl’s stepdad arrested before the next morning.

“Don’t tell me what you did, but well done,” she told Joan. “The sniffer dogs went a bit funny when we got to her room, but no one found any drugs. Not that it would have mattered, really, but I’m guessing she was worried it would?”

“Couldn’t really say,” Joan replied blithely. “I would never have talked to a minor about an on-going investigation.” 

“Right. Of course not.”

Most crimes weren’t really that complicated. They were straightforward and simple, and it was the people who snagged them up with their difficult, human problems. Sometimes, it was enough to be pretty smart, pretty tough and very kind, and let people tell the story to you themselves. 

Joan smiled. She could have chased the kid’s stepdad across London and tried to catch him at something, or hit him until he stopped yelling, but this was better. This would help a lot more.

“You should make sure she gets some drug counselling just in case though,” Joan said softly, and Sally nodded. 

Joan wondered if this was how Sherlock felt after a case, proud of himself instead of proud of someone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have this whole fic written already, it's all just in editing right now. I even have the first draft of that kidfic I mentioned earlier written (although it might never see the light of day). I know I haven't been updating as fast, but I promise you its not because I've lost interest, and you will not be stuck with an unfinished work.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you I had the rest of it all written! These should be coming out quicker now because they're all pretty much done. I even added an epilogue, so this are going to be five chapters, not four.

Sally hadn’t been kidding. 221B was spotless.

Joan hadn’t much fancied wearing the same two sets of clothes again and again, so she’d called Sally to make sure Sherlock was harassing the Yard and headed home to grab some more, and to retrieve the charger for her mobile. She’d hurried up the stairs (the door fairy had arrived, apparently, and fixed the lock up front), walked inside and almost checked to see if she’d had the right address for her own home.

Sherlock had dumped every experiment in the flat, including the long-term dust accumulation one she’d accused him of conducting just so she wouldn’t make him clean the bookshelves for a year. The windows were clear, the clutter was all tidied away, and the bathroom, when she poked her head in, looked as though it had been bleached within an inch of its life. It probably had; that was the only way Sherlock would have gotten the bloodstains out from the last time he minced a dead owl in it.

Joan trailed her fingers along a spotless table top and thought, _maybe I could just come home_ , before she ducked into the bedroom and found Irene Goddamn Goldilocks Adler curled up in her bed.

“For fuck’s sake,” Joan exploded, “are you going to eat all my porridge, too?”

Irene stretched languorously and turned to look at her, teeth bared in a lazy smile. “Does that make you mama bear then?” she asked coyly.

“Get the hell out of my bloody bed!” Joan shouted in return, and Irene paused to consider. 

“Is it still your bed if you’re not sleeping in it?” Irene mused, and Joan lost what reins on her temper she had. She ducked over and lifted up one side of the mattress to dump the dominatrix solidly onto the floor. Irene shrieked and fell with a highly satisfying thump. 

“Use the goddamn guest bed, Irene, it’s upstairs!” Joan snarled, and started packing away jumpers and jeans in her bag. Irene sat up on the floorboards like she’d meant to be there all along and grinned.

“Why use that cold, empty thing when this one is so nice and _warm_ ,” she leered, and Joan rolled her eyes. 

“Yes, I’m well aware you used to sleep with Sherlock. Got it, thanks.”

“Still throwing your little strop in the hopes he’ll come running after you, then?” she asked, examining her perfectly manicured nails. Joan knew it wasn’t fair to hate Irene for being prettier, but damn, the woman made her want to. Luckily she was also a terrible, manipulative human being, so Joan didn’t have to like her at all. “A bit backwards from you dogging his heels, taking care of him like usual.”

“Still staying somewhere else so I don’t lose my mind and murder you both,” Joan corrected, casting about for her charger. She’d known where it was before everything got put away, but now she was at a loss. Where would Sherlock think a charger belonged?

“He’s so sad without his pet,” Irene continued, standing and posing against the headboard, “I thought I might pluck him up while you’re gone. He was a tad clinical in bed, and that Wilkes man had smacked a bit of the risk out of him, but he wasn’t entirely unenthusiastic. And he is so very, very lovely.”

Joan felt a bit sick hearing what she’d sort of suspected already about Sebastian, and guilty for knowing now without Sherlock telling her. “Alright, I give. Why do all Sherlock’s exes think I want to talk to them about what he’s like in bed?”

“Who says I’m an ex?” Irene said archly, “you seem certain we’re not enjoying each other now.”

Joan gave her a level stare. “You’re right, I am certain.” Irene looked away first and Joan crouched to look around under the bed. “I wish people would stop calling me his pet and his minder, by the way. It makes us both feel like less than we are.”

“You don’t think it’s true?” Irene asked, giving up her pose and going to sit in the chair in the corner. Joan shuffled over a bit and tried looking through all the boxes on the bookshelf.

“No.” Joan found where her dog tags had run off to, at least. They were in a small box with a marble, half a bird skeleton, and what looked like a hand-drawn map of the human nervous system done by a five year old. Everything in it looked old and somehow sacred. She left them there and swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Sherlock can mind himself; he’s not a child, and I’m not his dog to be called and ordered around.”

“You are, though,” Irene’s tone was completely certain, matter-of-fact, and Joan turned to glare at her. “He just hasn’t called you yet, but if he did, you would come running in a second.”

Joan laughed. “Nice try, but I’m not going to ignore him if he rings just to spite you.” She gave up on the bookshelves and tried rummaging through the drawers. 

Irene hummed. “Why does everything I say have to be manipulative?”

“Not sure. Why does it?”

“You are his minder,” Irene changed tack. “Even furious with him, you’re putting things back where he’ll look for them rather than where you want them.” Joan’s fingers clenched on one of Sherlock’s shirts and she idly considered giving his sock drawer a stir for making her have to deal with Irene when she was already upset and emotionally off balance. “Clever men get tired of being patronised just like us clever women do,” Irene continued. “When you hover and wait on him, it—“

Joan slammed the drawer shut and spun to glare at her. “I’m not talking about my relationship with you, Irene. You twist your lies with just enough truth, but I’m not stupid and I’m not swallowing them. I do too much for Sherlock, and I let him get away with more than I should, and we’re definitely co-dependent, but that’s our business and our problem to work out. Fuck off and stop trying to get me to do whatever it is you’re aiming for.”

Irene was silent for a moment, then, “Do you love him?”

Joan laughed. “Of course I do. You know I do, or you wouldn’t have asked.”

The brunette cocked her head. “But does he love you?”

“Yes,” Joan said without hesitation. 

Irene smiled, catlike. “He’s said that, has he?”

“I haven’t yet.” Joan jumped about a foot at Sherlock’s voice and turned to glare at him for startling her. Irene merely turned her head like she’d known he was there the whole time, but Joan doubted it. She and Sherlock had a similar ‘I meant to do that’ look when they wanted to look clever and unsurprised.

“Sherlock,” Joan said, glare melting. She could feel the anger, simmering, hiding under the hurt, but it was far away at the moment; she was just happy to see him.

“Joan,” he replied. He paused, taking in the room. “Your charger is plugged in behind your nightstand.”

She smiled and went to retrieve it. “It should really be unplugged between charges,” she said, tucking it into her duffel. 

Sherlock snorted. “You’re just going to use it again the next night, there’s no reason to put it away every day only to pull it out again.”

“It keeps using up electricity when it’s plugged in,” Joan argued, and he rolled his eyes at the implication he hadn’t already considered and dismissed that point. They stood in awkward silence for a moment. “Case with Irene coming along?” Joan tried.

“No,” Sherlock said, hesitant, “I can’t think when you’re not here. When are you coming home?”

Oh, there was the anger back again.

“I thought you couldn’t think when I _was_ around, clogging up your brain with my feminine wiles,” she said sourly. “And I like how you just assume I’ll just be getting over everything and come running home when I’m not mad at you anymore. Why should I come back if the problem isn’t fixed?”

Sherlock frowned, confused and embarrassed, likely because he was showing his emotional ignorance again in front of Irene. Joan grit her teeth. “The problem is that I hurt you and you are angry with me. Short of a time machine, I can’t imagine how to remedy it.”

Irene laughed, and they both turned to shoot her a glare. Sherlock stalked out of the room and Joan followed, picking up her laptop on the way and heading down the stairs after him.

Sherlock turned to her on the front steps and tried again. “Come home. I was wrong. Your presence doesn’t hinder my work—I think about you whether you’re around or not,” he said desperately, “I thought about you while I was pretending to be dead almost as much as I think about you now; it isn’t the sex, I’d filled my head with you long before that. Come back.”

Joan swallowed. “Why should I?”

Sherlock looked thrown. “Why?” he repeated, perplexed. “You’re integral to my process. I have difficulty functioning without you.” He hesitated. “And you love me. You have difficulty functioning without me as well.”

Joan stared at her shoes, then back up at him.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Joan said softly. “I can’t keep forgiving you every time you hurt me, only to have to do it again. I’d like to try to function on my own for a bit,” she whispered, “and you should learn to do it too.”

“I don’t want to function without you,” Sherlock said, miserable, “I want you to come home.”

“No,” Joan replied, “you have to change first.” And turned and walked away.

***

Joan functioned pretty terribly without him for the rest of the day, as it turned out. Sally didn’t bother her when she covered her face with a pillow and tried to block out the rest of the world for a while.

***

The next morning Sally dropped a torn note with a phone number on it beside her. Joan didn’t recognise it. “What’s this?”

“Kid you talked to has a friend. Wanted help, asked for you.” Sally shrugged. “I told her I’d pass the information on.”

Joan pressed her lips together and Sally took it as her cue to duck off to work. Joan got up, showered, made toast, made tea, and finally gave up procrastinating and dialled the number.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, hi, this is Joan Watson. Sally Donovan said you wanted to speak to me?” 

“Yeah.” The voice was breathy, light. Trying not to make too much noise. There was a pause and a scraping noise, followed by the background sounds of cars passing by; she’d ducked outside to talk. “You work with Sherlock Holmes, right?”

“Um,” Joan said, “sort of. You should probably contact him directly; we’re… out of contact at the moment.”

“No,” the reply was decisive, certain. “I don’t want to hire him. I want to hire you.”

“Me?” Joan asked, surprised, “What do you want me for?”

“I heard when you help you can keep a secret,” the girl answered.

“Depends on the secret,” Joan replied, but that same feeling, the one that straightened her spine when she’d done the favour for Sally, had her tucking her wallet into her back pocket and retrieving the spare key from the bowl at the entryway. “But generally I can. How about we meet up for a bit and you tell me what you need?”

***

A week passed, then two, then three. Joan got calls for three more cases; all girls, all scared, all looking for someone who would just listen and help them fix whatever they’d found themselves in. It wasn’t anything that would interest Sherlock; it needed someone who understood people and honestly cared about them. Someone who could see around what they were saying to what they needed. Sherlock would have been bored out of his mind—Joan was not.

Sally had asked her in for a few more chats and unexplained fix-ups, too, saying she had to earn her couch somehow. Joan had laughed and complained, but hadn’t minded in the least. In the last one, Sally had told Joan to stop doing it so well; things were starting to wrap up suspiciously tidy. Joan just widened her eyes and swore she had no idea what Sally was talking about.

She hadn’t felt as pleased with herself without making someone else bleed for years. 

Joan was at the station after a particularly justified arrest, nursing the proud glow inside along with a cup of coffee when she ran into Anderson in an empty hallway.

“Bitch,” he hissed straight off when he saw her, “what are you doing skulking around here?”

“I’m sorry?” she asked, bewildered. “What?”

“Planning to convince someone else to file paperwork about me?” he ground out, getting closer than she felt comfortable with. She checked her coffee temperature; still hot.

“Anderson, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I filed a sexual harassment claim against you because you were sexually harassing me. I told you I would, I told Greg I would, and apparently you still didn’t think to _stop harassing me _. Not sure why you’re mad at _me_ about it.”__

__“If it were just you who had a chip on her shoulder and no sense of humour, I wouldn’t have to worry!” Anderson was definitely too close now, but Joan had the wall behind her and wouldn’t have backed up anyway. “But now you’ve convinced half the women here that I’ve been ‘sexually harassing’ them too, and they’ve all filed paperwork like a group of perfumed lemmings!” He slammed his hand against the wall next to her head, trapping her. “I could lose my job over this bullshit!”_ _

__Joan raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t spoken to them about it, but good for them. Maybe if you didn’t constantly talk out of your ass, this wouldn’t be a problem for you,” she responded. Then she dumped her coffee down his front._ _

__He screamed and leapt back, pawing at the scalding dark stain across his chest._ _

__“Oops,” Joan said unconvincingly, “sorry! You jostled me and I spilled my coffee. I hope it doesn’t burn,” and she strolled past him, whistling._ _

__It was amazing how easy it was not to get completely furious with people when the things you did made a difference._ _

__***_ _

__“I need you to get back something someone stole from me.”_ _

__Joan looked across the café table at the blonde in a too-short skirt and too much makeup. Prostitute, probably, like a few of her other recent clients had been. Young. Too thin. Scared._ _

__Lying._ _

__“She’s got some files hidden away somewhere. I was holding onto them for a friend, and she… well she stole them. And she hurt me.” the kid said nervously. “A lot. I had to go to the hospital.”_ _

__Joan tapped her fingers on the table top. “You want me to break in and find them, and then rough her up,” she guessed. When the girl nodded, Joan sighed. “I don’t actually break into houses and steal things, Gina. And I don’t hurt people for money, either.”_ _

__Gina frowned. “But you do. You broke in for—“_ _

__“I’m not a burglar for hire. I find things out for people and I help them deal with the police. Sometimes that puts me in dangerous situations where I have to defend myself or someone else, but I don’t go around like a vigilante.”_ _

__“Well find out for me where she put the files then,” Gina said peevishly, “and I’ll get someone else to break in and get them.”_ _

__Joan rolled her eyes. “Give me the name and address, and I’ll look into it,” she said, planning on doing nothing of the sort. Gina scribbled them down on a napkin and passed it across to her._ _

__Joan put it in her pocket. Gina hadn’t asked her for help, and was showing every sign that she would refuse any if she offered, so Joan couldn’t do much for her at this point. Still, it would be good to have someone with an eye on her, and Joan knew her contact information and where she could find her now._ _

__And it couldn’t hurt anything to find out a little bit more about the situation. She’d duck by and have a look around, try to find out who was trying to manipulate her and why._ _

__***_ _

__Joan left the tube stop and headed up the well-lit, cheerful street. It was an unlikely address for Gina to have been, given what she’d implied about the incident; if Joan hadn’t been suspicious already, she would be now. She loitered around, glancing at her notes and the house numbers as if she were lost, wandering back and forth in front of the building a few times. She shrugged in front of the flats across the road and sat down with a book, clearly waiting for someone to get home and let her in._ _

__She was small, female, and clearly harmless. No one looked at her twice._ _

__After a while, a young woman hopped out of a taxi and walked up to the address Gina had written, letting herself in and locking the door behind her._ _

__Well. That was interesting._ _

__***_ _

__Joan banged on the front door of 221B, and Sherlock must have recognised her knock because he opened it himself, looking uncomfortable. “I…take it you are not here to stay,” he said. An easy guess since she’s knocked instead of letting herself in._ _

__“No. I have something you want, though.”_ _

__He frowned. “What?”_ _

__Joan wasn’t sure whether she should be touched or annoyed that he was surprised she thought he would want something from her other than her presence. She passed him the napkin Gina had written on, and watched his face change as his brain caught and focused._ _

__“Someone wanted me to steal from and rough up Irene’s old girlfriend. What do you want to bet it’s connected to whatever she’s hanging around you for?”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I thought I was going to finish the series with this third fic, but I'm already half finished with the first chapter of a fourth story. Uh. Are guys getting sick of this by now? Should I stop once I finish posting this one? Start on something new? Actually go back and finish my terrible ghostfic?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE 3.23.13: Same as the last fic-- I'm starting work on a new story and want to know what loose threads I've left, what bits you're interested in and want to see more of. If I didn't address your suggestions or requests from last time, remind me! I may have thought I did and didn't understand, or it might not have fit with that fic at the time. We still have an epilogue on this one to go, but it's mostly just sex. :D
> 
> More detail at the bottom.

She’d missed him.

Sherlock looked awful— like he hadn’t been sleeping or eating as well as he should have been while she was away. On the upside, he wasn’t dead or clearly starving, which was good. Everything about him was buttoned up, obsessive, careful. His eyes were red-rimmed; Joan couldn’t help a quick glance to his inner arm. Sherlock caught her at it and she flushed.

“I’m not using.”

“I wasn’t worried,” she lied.

Sherlock wordlessly rolled up his sleeves and displayed his old scars. There were no new ones.

Joan felt like a jerk. “I’m sorry.” It didn’t matter that she hadn’t said anything; Sherlock didn’t need her to say things when the ‘are you on something’ looks were so familiar to him.

“Unnecessary,” he replied, leaving his sleeves up and opening the door wider for her, “it was a valid concern. Please,” he gestured for her to come in, and she took the stairs ahead of him, feeling awkward in her own home.

“You should come home; the flat is in your name.” He was still unnaturally quiet, wary. “I can leave if you want.”

Joan turned to him and smiled. “Thank you. I’ll stay at Sally’s though; you’re not on the lease agreement but it’s your flat, too.” She shrugged. “You have fewer places to go than I do, anyway.”

“I can go to Mycroft.”

Joan saw red at the thought of Sherlock, miserable and emotionally compromised, in Mycroft’s care. However earnest the man’s intentions may or may not be, that was a recipe for disaster. “No,” she replied flatly, and Sherlock fell silent.

Joan searched for a joke, something to banter with, but came up with nothing. 

Irene was in Joan’s chair again when they came in—her eyes cut to Sherlock over Joan’s shoulder, and whatever she saw there made her frown and move to the couch. She set the drink in her hand on the table, and Sherlock cleared his throat; Irene pursed her lips and took a coaster to protect it.

Clearly Joan had accidentally stumbled through the wrong doorway somewhere and had ended up in another dimension, because she had been up to this point unaware they even _owned_ coasters. Not a parallel dimension, because she couldn’t even imagine a Sherlock who used coasters, except as aerial weapons, but maybe there were perpendicular dimensions? Maybe they were all their own opposites here.

Joan glanced at Irene. No, still obnoxiously posing without thinking about it and sulking. What did it say about Joan when that pissed her off about Irene, but finding those same traits missing from Sherlock made her concerned? 

That she was cracked, likely. 

221B was still spotless; it was being cleaned regularly. Joan glanced at Irene’s nails; it almost certainly wouldn’t have been her anyway, but definitely not with that perfect manicure. Probably not Mrs Hudson, as she’d be upset with Sherlock for finally driving Joan off.

So as bizarre as it was, Sherlock had not only cleaned the flat, but had kept it clean. Joan wasn’t sure how she felt about this. On the one hand, Sherlock had taken something that he knew bothered her and removed it as completely and permanently as he could. He hadn’t known she or Sally were coming either time they’d shown up, which meant it hadn’t just been done in a hurry to impress them. This was a sustained effort. 

And to keep it up—that was much more difficult than the promises and grand displays of transformation she’d gotten from her exes. Which was, really, why they were exes: none of those promises and changes ever lasted more than a week. 

On the other hand, it hadn’t been what she’d meant. She’d thought it wasn’t what she’d asked for. There wasn’t a single experiment anywhere that she could see, and the wall Sherlock generally covered with pinned scraps of paper when on a case was completely blank. The Cluedo board was gone. She couldn’t imagine it was good for his work, to hem himself in like this. And… well, really, a _coaster_? Joan would rather they didn’t decorate à la drugs bust, but even she didn’t actually feel comfortable with this level of tidy. Sherlock, who lived for chaos and destruction, must be screaming inside. 

And to keep his home clear of any experiment anywhere meant something even worse. Joan felt ill. She sat down in her chair, Sherlock sat in his, and it was more abnormal than they ever had been.

“One of your clients tried to get you to steal from Kate,” Sherlock finally said, partially for Irene’s benefit and partially for something to say. “From the handwriting I’d say female. Young. You’re attracting a type.”

Joan smiled, grateful for something safe to respond to, which was probably Sherlock’s intention. It was strange to see him completely omniscient in some things, and then totally lost about others, but he would probably be absolutely insufferable if he were perfect at everything. “I am. It’s a type I like to help. Someone’s noticed and tried to use it against me.” She tapped her armrest. “Greg’s been keeping you up to date, then?”

“Yes. And Sally, although in her case it is largely unintentional.”

Irene smiled, apparently cross with being ignored. “It is so nice to have sad young things begging you for assistance, isn’t it?” She stretched across the couch, displaying herself, trying to get a rise out of one of them. “Do you think you’ll be replacing our Sherlock with them, then?”

Sherlock didn’t look at her. “Irene,” he said. Irene scowled, stopped, and turned to look out the window. 

Joan felt _extremely_ self-conscious.

“Gina told me Kate has some files that weren’t hers,” she said, uncomfortable, “she expected me to burgle Kate’s home and hopefully hurt Kate in the process. Someone clearly has a very skewed perception of what I do.”

Irene’s eyes snapped to Joan. “You’ve only been bumbling about without Sherlock for a month. One can hardly make assumptions that his puppy wouldn’t blindly follow directions as well as it did before. Tell me, if you hadn’t realised the girl was lying, would you have beaten and thieved without your current hesitation?”

Sherlock eyes snapped to Irene, looking murderous. “We spoke about this earlier. Do you want my help or not?”

“I’m not sure; the help you’ve given so far has been little enough,” Irene hissed at him. “A month to deter one vindictive man? And we’re no closer than we were at the start! You’re not concentrating, my dear, you’re spending your time staring stupidly at everything that so much as reminds you of your runaway pet here. And since this is her old home and the two of you pissed on half of London, that’s quite a few distractions lying around!”

Sherlock refused to rise to the bait. This was also new. “The problems you have wrapped yourself up in are not as simple as you make them out to be,” he said calmly. “I will not sink to murder, as you suggest, in order to remedy them. If you have decided that you no longer require my services, you are free to leave at any time.”

“I sank to murder for you,” Irene snarled, and then turned on Joan, who had been pretty sure a single word from her would make things much, much worse. Not that it made a difference; Irene wasn’t really talking to her anyway. “I murdered for your little blonde pet here, and. You. _Owe. Me_.”

“I did not ask you to kill anyone—if you had stuck to my plan you would not have needed to. And you will not speak of Joan that way.”

“You were killing yourself with neglect as it was; you didn’t have the time for me to stick to your plan!” Irene didn’t raise her voice, didn’t stand and hit things like Joan did; she stayed reclined like a jungle cat, hissing and spitting. “And for what? _She’s left you_ , she’s not coming back no matter how many coasters you make me use, or how polite you pretend to be—she won’t come back because _you can’t change_. You _won’t_ change. You shouldn’t _have_ to change, and if you do, your work suffers! You’re _useless_ to me like this! You,” she turned to glare at a wide-eyed Joan, “have made him useless! Do you think he can work in this ridiculous show room? Do you think by twisting and neutering him, by hemming him in with guilt and manners, that you are going to make him into anything other than the pathetic dog people accuse you of being?”

“Sherlock makes his own choices; I didn’t make him do anything” Joan replied steadily, and because she wasn’t stupid, she said, “and I am not Kate.”

Irene stopped, mouth open and furious, and Sherlock smiled. “Well done, Joan,” he breathed. “What led you to that?”

Joan shrugged. “Kate wouldn’t still have anything of Irene’s, or anything Irene’s enemies needed, if they were on good terms. Last I saw Irene was totally in control of that relationship.” She looked at Irene, who looked away. “And she’s too angry with me—personally angry with me, not the problems I’m causing her—for it to be about you. It has to be about her.”

Irene shifted, refusing to meet Joan’s eyes. “Kate was promising, but ultimately a disappointment. As Sherlock will eventually realise you are,” she sniped. “She has my backup leverage. All the smaller, less ugly secrets I would retain if I’d sold my phone. Just a bit of insurance—I would never have sold the phone for anything that left me less than completely safe and protected. I left them to keep her safe when I disappeared; a generous gift at a considerable cost. But now that I need them to protect me,” Irene snarled, “she can’t be bothered to help.”

Joan strongly doubted Irene would have left anything with Kate if she’d ever thought she would need it, but she didn’t say anything. Irene must have read it on her face, though, because she sneered and cut herself off with a sniff.

“After Kate refused to help, Irene came to me,” Sherlock explained after a moment, “and she’s right; I owe her a great deal. We have tried to get them back through less legal means but were unable to locate them.” He looked annoyed. Joan stifled her smile; Sherlock never took even momentary failure gracefully. “Kate hides her things surprisingly well. We were going to make another attempt tonight.” 

Then he paused, tentative, and steepled his fingers at his mouth. “Would you like to join us?” he asked, hopefully, hesitantly. “You… tend to aid my process.”

Joan laughed. “I already said I wasn’t going to go from crime-fighting to burglary for hire, Sherlock.” But her treacherous, readable face must have said clearly that she wanted to, because Sherlock lost the tense anxiety and relaxed.

“It wouldn’t be burglary for hire, it would be burglary for free.” Sherlock grinned. “And Kate has been put in danger by keeping the files. She will be killed for them eventually, and then Irene…”

“Will be hanging about even longer.” Irene cut in.

“Don’t try to bully me,” Joan said to her, and to Sherlock, “I’m not a criminal and neither are you. Let’s try something else first.”

***

Kate was not a stupid person either; when she opened the door to Joan, her face went dark and ugly. 

“Is your vampire helping mine, now, then?” she asked pointedly, looking about for Sherlock. He was actually hidden on the other side of the building, just in case, but Joan didn’t say and Kate wasn’t as good as their ‘vampires’ at reading her. “I guess now that I’ve hung out the garlic, they have to send his Renfield instead.”

“Actually they’ve already tried breaking in twice, but couldn’t find what they were looking for,” Joan replied cheerily. “Can I come in?”

Kate was surprised enough to open the door further, and Joan ducked inside. “They can’t think telling me that will make me any more likely to hand them over,” she said, recovering slightly. 

“Nope, and Irene would probably skin me if she knew,” Joan replied, carefully avoiding glancing around. “Don’t much care, though. Mind if I sit down?”

“I won’t get you tea or let you use the bathroom so you can have a snoop of your own,” Kate warned, walking past her and sitting on a couch in the main room. “You may be trying to stay on the legal side of things, but I’m not stupid and I won’t help you. I definitely won’t help Irene.”

“If you were stupid, someone else would have the files by now,” Joan replied, sitting opposite her. “They don’t. I’m impressed. You have to be clever to hide things from Sherlock and Irene.”

Kate laughed ruefully. “Save it. I’m not smart enough to trick them. You know that.”

Joan shrugged. “Neither am I. I don’t think I’d be able to hide anything from Sherlock. I’d have to trust he wouldn’t look if wanted to keep something secret.”

Kate snorted. “You must not keep very many secrets, then.”

“He’s getting better about it, but no,” Joan admitted. “Although it makes it easier that I don’t live with him anymore.”

Kate’s eyes lit. “Good for you. Did he look as shocked when you didn’t come to heel as Irene did?”

Joan shrugged, uncomfortable. “I was pretty furious at the time. He mostly looked miserable.” So miserable he changed completely and kept it up. What had he changed that she couldn’t see? They needed to talk, and soon. 

“Good. I’m glad.” Kate looked at her hands. “Irene never told me she was alive. I lived without her for years. I grew up and depended on myself.” Joan smiled. It was good to know Kate had moved on after the death of her other half, like Joan should have. “Then she comes back. Did she tell you? No,” she said immediately, “she wouldn’t have. It wouldn’t have let her look as controlled or as in control as she would have liked.”

“She said you refused to give her your files.”

Kate laughed. “I did refuse. I was too shocked to say anything at first, of course—although when the papers told me Sherlock had risen from the dead, I should have suspected. No, she brushed right in, kissed me, and told me to get them. No apology, no explanation, nothing.” Kate looked at Joan, livid. “She’d dropped me when she didn’t need me, treated me like a pair of her old shoes, and then expected me to jump right into her arms and give her everything she wanted the moment she was back in London? No.”

“No,” echoed Joan. “I wouldn’t have either.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Kate sneered. “You did. I don’t spy on you, but I can read the papers just like anyone else can—he came back and you welcomed him with open arms. You’re still under his spell. I’m not like you.”

“I didn’t move on like you did,” Joan admitted, “but he’s not Irene, either. He apologised and it was sincere. And it did help my temper to lob half the kitchen at his head, of course.”

“You can’t believe anything they say,” Kate said nastily, “they lie far better than we do. You can’t trust any of it, and it eats you; you forget when they’re around to dazzle you, but when they leave it gnaws on your mind. We’re nothing to brilliant people like them. We only exist to order about, play with, or to get in their way while they do more important things.”

“No,” Joan said softly, “Sherlock can’t fool me. I can see through him.” It was harder when it was a lie of omission rather than a straight falsehood, but she had seen all the signs that he’d had previous relationships and she’d known he had abuse in his past. She’d taken a while longer to realise one of those relationships was with Irene, but it had come out. Sherlock couldn’t lie to her, really, despite what she’d told him earlier. It just hurt when he did. 

“You’re kidding yourself on that, but fine.” Kate was apparently finished with the conversation if Joan wasn’t on her side. “What do you want?”

“I want a copy of the files,” Joan answered bluntly.

Kate laughed. “First, no. Second, a copy? You don’t want the originals?”

Joan shook her head. “We’re not like them. It’s true. It suits their drama and obsessions with power to have one perfect copy to sell and display, but I’m more practical. I’m guessing you are too, since they didn’t find them. If I had something like that, I would have copies all over with friends I trusted, who would send them out if I went missing. Then I would forget about them and never touch them again until someone else’s fallout hit me.”

Kate was silent. Then, “you’re smarter than you look.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” Joan joked, but then clasped her hands together in her lap. “You don’t want Irene to die. You’re angry, you’re hurt, and you want nothing to do with her, but you don’t want her dead. All I need is a copy.”

Kate stared at the table for a while, and Joan looked away to give her time.

Kate finally let out a breath and stood. “Fine.” She went to the cabinet beside her desk and pulled out a box labelled ‘taxes 2009-2012’ which, when opened, turned out to be completely full of taxes. Likely from 2009 to 2012. Joan grinned when Kate dug around the bottom and handed her a battered USB key.

“I’m not as paranoid as you are, Dr Watson,” Kate said softly. “That’s the other problem clever people have. They expect us all to think about them, their plans and their things as much as they do. It never occurs to them that when they’re not nearby to be marvelled at, we don’t necessarily think about them at all.” She handed Joan the drive, and stood, brushing off her knees. 

“I only have two copies, and I’d mostly forgotten about them. Let Irene know that if she ever contacts me again, I’ll call every person I can connect to these and let them know she’s still around.”

“I will.” Joan slipped the drive in her pocket and headed for the door. “Thank you.”

Kate didn’t reply, but as Joan left she turned the lock solidly after her.

***

Irene was not as pleased to have the files as Joan might have thought. She’d huffed and snarked and finally shut up when Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Do these really do her any good, though?” Joan asked, later, when Irene had swept out to confront her ex-client. “I can’t imagine Kate would have given them to me if they were really important. Maybe she has enough to keep this guy off her trail, but what about when he tells everyone else?”

“As Irene explained it to me, he is unlikely to allow anyone else to catch her.” Sherlock fidgeted, re-sorting books on the shelf. Joan felt guilty. “Jealousy, I’ve found, does tend to incite actions that contradict one’s larger goals.”

“Mm.” Joan replied, not sure how to proceed. Sherlock turned back to her, hesitant himself. She was awkward, tense; completely unnatural. She could feel her limp creeping back in, slight twinges sparking up her leg when she moved it.

“You want to save the girl. Gina,” Sherlock offered.

“She’s not helping out because she likes the guy,” Joan answered, “of course I do. I’m not smart enough to be able to do anything if she doesn’t help, though.”

“I am.” Sherlock grinned. 

Joan laughed, standing. Her limp gave up and didn’t appear. “You’re right, you probably are.” She shrugged into her coat, fighting a stupid smile. “What’s the plan, then?”

***

It was amazing. Sherlock was amazing.

Joan had told Gina she wasn’t a vigilante but she’d lied through her front teeth. Joan wanted to be a superhero almost as much as she wanted to be able to shoot lasers out of her eyes, and when she was working with Sherlock, she could be one. She did good things alone, he did amazing things, but together they were incredible.

The lasers thing she was okay doing without, on the whole.

She’d forgotten for a while when she’d been staying with Sally, somehow. She’d built on her hurt and her anger and what everyone else said about her: his sidekick, his babysitter, his dog. She wasn’t any of those things, and she never really had been.

“I’m going left; you go right,” Sherlock whispered, because of course they’d gotten themselves into a situation that had required a fire-fight. Of course they’d blown their clever plans and were now running around in the dark dodging bullets and jumping out on hardened criminals like idiots. 

It would have been boring otherwise. Who didn’t want a chance to knock some heads together?

Joan nodded and ducked around the corner. Sherlock ran around his, let out a sudden grunt of pain, and fell backwards with Irene’s ex-client—Joan still hadn’t gotten his name—heavy on top of him. The man grabbed him around the neck and squeezed while Sherlock went for his eyes, heels drumming on the floor.

Joan braced herself behind them and clocked what’s-his-name in the face with the butt of her gun—it was hugely satisfying. If for no other reason, she could have loved Sherlock just for putting her in positions where she was actually allowed to hit people in the face with her Browning. This probably said very bad things about her. 

Sherlock bucked—she hadn’t forgotten how sexy he was but, fuck, focus—and knocked him away as he crumpled, out cold. The man would probably be alright. Maybe. Joan didn’t much care.

“Thank you,” Sherlock croaked, smiling despite the bruised throat, and Joan grinned in return. 

“Not a problem. There’s four of his goons still upstairs; I’ve already called Greg. What say we leave them tied to posts Spiderman-style for Sally when they get here?”

“You called Greg already?” Sherlock asked, his face drawing into a pout, “we wasted too much time convincing Henley” —right, that was the guy’s name—“that we were a threat and getting chased into his building. We’ll hardly have time to get a few fights in and the police will be here to save us.”

“Yes, but when they do save us, we won’t be charged with breaking and entering. Come on,” she cuffed Henley and reached down for Sherlock. He lifted a hand and she yanked him up, and then raced him to the stairs. “I bet you a fiver I’ll take down more of them than you.”

“Hardly fair, I’m adept at combat but you’re the brawn in our partnership. I manoeuvre assailants in the best way as to take advantage of your particular skill set.”

“Call it what you like—I’ll still get more of them.” Joan ran around another hallway and suddenly jumped right back, smashing into Sherlock and sending them both to the floor in a tangle of limbs as two shots sounded ahead and thudded into the wall.

Sherlock laughed and Joan poked him as she struggled to disengage, eyes bright. “Shut it, you were following too close.”

“Clearly; I was remiss in expecting you to check where you were running before leaping in.” He was carefully keeping his hands on the ground beside him, and Joan felt a slight twinge at the reminder that they were still separated. She shook it off and stood, moving quickly back the way they’d come.

“Let’s duck around into that office before he gets here; I’ll hit him with the door and you can cuff him to it while he’s stunned.”

“Excellent. Does that count as a point for me or for you?” Sherlock teased, getting to his feet and hurrying after her.

“Me, clearly. I’m just letting you help,” Joan whispered, slamming the door shut and making sure their pursuer saw her outlined against it before darting away. Two more shots knocked the glass out of the small window above the handle and the man slammed it open to barrel through; she put her shoulder to it, hard, from where she stood and smashed him into the doorway. Sherlock knocked the gun from his hand and wrapped the cuffs around his wrist and the handle. Then they both danced back out of his reach before he could get his bearings. 

They heard shouting as they ran down the next hall. The place was a maze; Sherlock probably had it all mapped out in his head, but only Joan’s time fighting in mountain warrens kept her from completely losing her bearings. “Three of them together,” Sherlock said, breathless, “we should wait for them to split up to search for us.”

“Cupboard,” Joan answered, and piled in after him as Sherlock ducked into the closest one.

They were alone and pressed together in the dark, breathing hard while gunmen looked for them somewhere outside. Her fingers went straight for his hair without her even thinking about it, tangling there and pulling him down. Sherlock let out a choked sound in the dark and leaned towards her, and she met him halfway.

“Can I touch you? I want to touch you,” Sherlock managed, breathless.

“Yes, please yes,” she gasped, and his hands were under her shirt and pulling her against him as soon as it was out of her mouth. He forced her against the wall and crushed a groan from her.

The tiny bit of brains she had left that hadn’t been crowded out by the adrenaline made her say, “sex won’t fix us.”

They both stopped, sagged. Joan wanted to hit something.

“I know,” Sherlock answered softly, trailing his hands slowly along her sides before he groaned and put them against the wall behind her, not touching her except for his mouth against her scalp. “Do you want to stop?” he asked, breath in her hair.

“No,” she said honestly, letting go of his trousers and, like him, setting her palms against the wall behind her. “But we probably should.”

He let out a soft, desperate sound. “Lestrade once told me he would have taken any part of you that you would share with him.” He slid his forehead to rest against hers, eyes clenched tight. “I find myself in surprising accord.”

“I’m not going to use you for crime scene sex,” she said miserably, and he nodded.

“For the best, I know.” He was quiet, and they stood like that, inches apart, breathing in tandem. Then, “come home,” he whispered, “please.”

Joan’s heart was breaking. “I—“

“Please,” Sherlock said, eyes clenched shut, every muscle tense, “you don’t have to be anything for me. Just be there. Come home. Irene was wrong—I can change. I will change. I’ll be anything you want.” A tear escaped, then two, and he was crying, and Joan had to press her hands against the plaster behind her until her knuckles went white not to touch him. “I don’t need you. I can do my work without you, even though you make me better. I can function; I can do everything without you. I just don’t want to. Please.” He did something that in anyone other than Sherlock Holmes would have been a sob. “If I make a mistake, if I do this again, I’ll leave. You can tell me to leave and I’ll leave and I won’t come back until you say you want me back, if you say it at all. I promise. Please. I miss you.”

“Sherlock,” Joan managed, eyes wet, and slid her arms around him. He collapsed against her, exhausted, miserable. “You just have to stop when I say you’ve hurt me. You don’t have to change everything about yourself; I love you and all of you. You don’t need to destroy your life to fit me. We fit together anyway.”

Sherlock buried his face against the crook of her neck, fingers in her hair, breath hot against her skin. “Yes. I promise. Come home.”

“Okay,” she said gently. She held him, and they just stood and breathed and cried against one another for a while. But she couldn’t hold back; she gave a muffled giggle against his collar. He pulled back to look at her, confused.

“Oh my god. You made Irene Adler use a _drink coaster_ ,” she said, and started to giggle in earnest. Sherlock smiled.

“She hated it, I made her use them for everything and she lectured me about changing for you the whole time,” he said, leaning back into her. “I forced her to make the guest bed. She was furious.”

“You bleached the owl out of the bathtub. Christ, Sherlock, you actually cleaned the bloodstains out of the grout.” Joan was laughing, and Sherlock was laughing, and she was done sleeping on Sally’s sofa and it was perfect. “I’ve changed my mind. Sex is a great idea. Get out your prick and fuck me right here.”

The closet door suddenly opened, and Lestrade glared at them as they scrambled apart and Joan pulled her gun. He looked at it, and then at her. She tried a weak smile and hid it behind her back.

“As happy as I am that the two of you have made up,” he said tiredly, “I’d like to point out that hiding in a storage cupboard from armed criminals might not be the _best_ time for loud, tearful declarations of undying devotion.”

“I recorded it on my phone, though, if you want a copy,” said Sally behind him helpfully. “It was really moving. I especially liked the part where you asked him to shag you at a crime scene. Touching.” She shook her head, looking at her mobile. “You two are a pair of complete nutters.”

Joan tried very hard to look sheepish and not giggle this time.

She failed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE 3.23.13: So there you go! Still have an epilogue that tidies up that trail-off ending, don't worry. But I'm working on the next story, and I'm hoping to get some feedback on what I can do better or what you want to see more of. Was there something you think I did well that you want to see again? Something you didn't like that I can make sure to avoid? A point you want to know more about, somewhere you want the characters to grow?
> 
> The next fic is maybe maybe going to have a lot of BAMF!Joan. What are your opinions on flashbacks (literary, not PTSD)? Okay, or totally ridiculous never want to see it?
> 
> ALSO, I'm making a list of cliches this fic has fallen prey to, because it has fallen prey to a lot. Any of the cliches are fair game, even if I played with them or addressed them. If you take part, I know you're ribbing me lovingly, not being mean. I've only had one taker so far; I know there are more. Let me start!
> 
>   * Magical sex god Virgin!Sherlock (yeah, I addressed it, but still there!)
>   * Abused!Sherlock 
>   * Genderswap (I mean really)
>   * (almost) Simultaneous orgasms
>   * Ican'tholdallthesefeelings!Sherlock
>   * Post case? SEX IN THE HALLWAY.
> 

> 
> And from the comments:
> 
>   * Hating on the prettier, but evil, romantic rival (Irene) -- (SO TRUE, flyninthetardis, SO CLICHE)
> 



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you're reading this last chapter, think about what you liked and what you want more of; I'm writing the next story now and I want to know!
> 
> Also: I put an allusion to another, pretty popular but very creepy, Sherlock fic in here. Anyone catch it?

The taxi ride home would be embarrassing when Joan woke up the next morning. At the time, though, she was only able to quietly moan out “Sherlock,” in what could vaguely be construed as concern as he moved his hips between her legs, slipped a hand down the back of her jeans and slid his tongue inside her mouth. His coat covered them both, but the cabbie would have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to know exactly what Sherlock was doing as he ground up against her. 

“This one isn’t a serial killer,” Sherlock said into her mouth, “I checked this time.”

“That, ah,” she managed, wondering how Sherlock could check a cab driver for serial killing with a quick glance at the dash, “that wasn’t actually my concern.”

They got home without breaking any public decency laws, but only by the skin of their teeth. Joan made sure to give the poor, red-faced cabbie a sizable tip—he couldn’t even look at her when she did—and yanked Sherlock by the loops of his trousers to their front stoop, her back to the building, shiny new lock cutting into her. Sherlock groped at it behind her as she arched up against him, mouth on his, until he finally opened the door and they tumbled inside, slamming back up against it as they fumbled it closed. Joan had his shirt open under his coat, and snaked his belt off with a quick tug as he slid his hands under her jumper to pull it off and throw it to the floor.

“Condoms…in the flat,” he panted, biting her shoulder, as she gasped and licked his ear in return.

“I need you inside me as soon as possible,” she muttered, and he groaned into her skin and pulled her tighter against him. He took a steadying breath, and then dragged her up the stairs at a flat run. She laughed and followed, pulling his coat and shirt off of him as they made it to the top and tossing them behind her.

Sherlock crowded Joan into the kitchen, where he turned her with his palm pressed against her back and shoved her down against the table. She arched back against him and he kissed up along her backbone, one hand at her hips while the other fumbled for one of the drawers under the bench.

“In the kitchen?” she panted, his teeth at her neck making it difficult to speak, “that’s where the condoms go?”

“As we tend to have sex in all areas of the flat, it only makes sense to store them in as many places as possible,” he murmured into her ear, and she gripped the table harder. 

“I’m going to be finding condoms in my tea, in the silverware drawer…” Joan said, and he yanked down her jeans and opened his fly, and she quickly forgot how to speak. She heard the rip of the foil packet and inhaled, leaning back to rest her head against his shoulder. He nuzzled her ear and she bit his in return, and then he was pushing into her, filling her, and she’d missed this _so much_.

“I didn’t put them _in_ the tea,” Sherlock hissed, fingers and teeth leaving bruises from her hips up along her back. 

Joan braced against the table and thrust back onto him, making him inhale sharply. “What?” she gasped, confused.

“The condoms. I put them…nng…behind the tea. Not in the tea.”

Joan gave a choked laugh and twisted to nip at his jaw. “I will pay you to trick your brother into looking around the flat for a pen the next time he’s here.”

Sherlock kissed her grin, thrusting suddenly and shoving her up against the table. “No good; he carries his own. However, I could disassemble his umbrella and make him search for the pieces.”

“Do it. I’ll give you blow jobs for a week.” Joan was arched almost painfully, twisted so her mouth could reach Sherlock’s, her hands reaching up and over her head to twine in his curls (Christ she loved his hair) and her tongue against his. Sherlock’s thumbs dug into her where he dragged her solidly back against him. 

“You’ll probably already give me blow jobs for a week,” he panted, picking up speed. 

“But I’ll be _really enthusiastic_ ,” she mouthed against his skin. He trailed one hand up her side to cup her chin, tilting her head so he could lick along her jugular. Her eyes went wide, and she slammed both hands down to press herself hard onto him as she clenched and came. Sherlock’s fingers tightened on her, leaving bruises, following soon after. 

She fell against the table, laughing and breathing hard, and Sherlock dropped on top of her. He dragged his mouth along her shoulder, kissing up one arm and down the other, holding her close like she’d leave again if he let go. 

“We’re always in such a rush,” she laughed, turning to face him. She twined her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, touching from mouth to knee, tangled up in each other, “we never go slow.”

“I can go slow,” he whispered into her hair, “as soon as I make up for going a month without you. Then I’ll go slow.”

“I wasn’t complaining,” she said, nipping his jaw, “I like it hard and fast.” 

Sherlock groaned and leaned his full weight into her. She giggled. 

“I am…” he paused, his voice grave, hesitant, “I am extremely fond of you.”

Joan bit him, smiling. “Just say you love me like a normal person, you big looming drama queen.”

He laughed, deep and low, and spread his hands across her back like wings. “I had gathered that directly after sex was a poor time to make such an announcement.”

Joan shook her head and pushed him backwards into the bedroom. “I already knew; you don’t need to convince me that you mean it. But to celebrate, I’ll let you tie me up first this time, if you want.”

“Oh,” he said, “yes.”

***

Joan woke the next morning sore and pleased, tangled up in sheets and Sherlock, and didn’t feel embarrassed about the taxi ride the night before at all. She decided to give it some more time and reached out to pull Sherlock closer, nuzzling into his hair (she really, really loved his hair). He absently draped an arm over her, his attention on his phone. She glanced at it; he was researching spore farming.

Sherlock didn’t sleep much, but he’d rather turn up to see the Queen while wearing a bed sheet than put forth the effort to be anything but lazy and naked until noon. Sometimes he spent half the morning in bed with her that way, and it wonderful, but usually he was up playing with poisonous chemicals in his altogether by now.

“You don’t have to change everything,” she told him again. “I don’t want you to change everything.”

Sherlock gave her a sidelong glance before turning his attention back to his phone. “You like it when I stay in bed with you.”

“I do,” she agreed, wiggling against him, and the corner of his mouth crooked up, “but I don’t mind it when you’re off working on something instead.” 

Sherlock stopped typing and turned his full attention to her. “You told me I needed to change for you to come back,” he said finally. 

“You hurt me on purpose a lot. I forgive you for it a lot. That has to stop, but not everything does. If I wanted to be with someone who kept the flat immaculate and had iron control over every action and emotion, I’d be in bed with Mycroft.”

Sherlock stared at her, horrified. “Never say anything like that again,” he managed, disgusted, “I think I’ve lost the ability to produce an erection for the next five months.”

Joan laughed as he shuddered. Then, “Irene…said some things. About Sebastian,” she confessed. 

Sherlock looked at her, trying to read her thoughts, and Joan tried to make them as clear on her face as possible. “You already suspected,” he said, and she nodded. He blew out a breath of air. “We were…mutually destructive. I didn’t enjoy it. I left.” He set his phone on the bedside table with a deliberate click. “This is why you were so careful to talk about non-consensual as well as consensual sexual histories when you tried to discuss mine.”

“A bit.”

“It hasn’t scarred me,” Sherlock said, glaring at his mobile. “I’m not…It doesn’t matter.”

“Okay.” She shrugged. “I’m not going to treat you any differently than I do now. But I know you’re stuck with Irene, him, and the plethora of romcoms and advice columns for how you should act with a partner. I don’t follow their rules, and you don’t know for certain what will upset me and what really doesn’t matter. It’s alright if you make a mistake. I’m not going to ask you to leave over an accident. Just don’t do it on purpose, and stop when I tell you to.”

Sherlock just looked at her, brows drawn together.

Joan laughed. “That means yes, it’s okay, go farm spores as long as you don’t do it on me. And it’s occasionally nice to have the kitchen table cleared so we can have sex on it.”

Sherlock watched her a moment more, then pulled her into a sudden, full-body kiss before leaping out of bed to run possibly dangerous experiments completely starkers. She laughed and pulled the covers up, curling away from the sunlight and going back to sleep.

***

“Alright. I’m here, let’s go,” Joan said as she jogged into Greg’s office, where he was in deep discussion with Sally over some blood-strewn photographs. 

“Yeah, I’ll be right out.” Sally scooped the pictures up and tucked them into a folder, which she then thrust at Greg. “Yours now. I’m off.”

Greg looked mulish. “That’s not fair; I’m stuck here on my own solving crimes while you go out and have fun with my ex,” he complained to Sally. Sally snorted and ignored him.

“Stuck here with Sherlock,” Joan corrected, “I brought him to drop off with you.”

“What?” Greg looked betrayed. “First you swan off with my subordinates and then you saddle me with Sherlock-sitting?”

Joan rolled her eyes. “Shut up, I’m not dropping him off to be minded, I’m leaving him for a play-date. He’ll solve all your crimes and you can be exasperatedly gruff at him like you always are. You’ll both be happy as clams.”

“She’s right, you do enjoy giving him that look,” Sally agreed. 

“The one I also give my fourteen year old daughter when she wants to go to Uni parties? That look?”

“Yep,” Joan said brightly, “that’s the one.”

“We, meanwhile, will be getting hammered and talking about sex,” Sally told him, gathering her coat.

Greg gave Joan a hangdog expression. “I want to get boozed up and talk about sex,” he begged.

Joan laughed. “I’m sure Sherlock wouldn’t mind. You’d probably be easier to talk into crime scene access. Don’t ask him anything you don’t want to know, though, he’ll tell you. In detail.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine, we’ll do all the work while you two fritter your lives away to the bottle. Have a lovely evening.”

“Shut it, you love a solved case as much as he does,” Joan accused as she and Sally ducked out. Behind them they could hear Sherlock arrive and immediately start dissecting Greg’s past week. Greg’s voice was cheerfully sarcastic in return.

“I don’t actually want to talk about your sex life with Sherlock,” Sally said as they left, “I was just yanking his chain. Please don’t tell me about it.”

“Too late, you’re stuck with fully detailed play by plays,” Joan teased. “Complete with necessary repairs to the flat afterwards.”

“Ugh,” Sally replied, shuddering. “Fine. Let me get a bit more drunk first, though; I can’t handle the idea of Sherlock having sex when I’m sober.”

“Deal,” Joan agreed, grinning. “I’ll also tell you about the time I strung my Sergeant’s pants up the flag pole à la 90’s TV show to make up for it.”

Sally stared at her. “How the hell did you ever get away with all of this shit?”

Joan shrugged. “Why do you think I only made it to Captain?” she asked, and headed down the street to the pub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So again, just like last time; I'm working on the next story and I want to know what you want to see. I tried to fit as much into this one from my last ask as I could-- if I didn't get yours, I may have forgotten or it may not have fit. Feel free to ask again! Please tell me what I did right and what I could have done better. I feel like my stories are getting better because of the wonderful feedback and suggestions I've gotten so far; please make this next one my best!
> 
> ALSO: we've talked about cliches and tropes I've used so far... guess which one is going to be the big one in the next fic and I will send you the first chapter a day before everyone else gets it. :D


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